I stare back at my reflection: blood shot eyes, a bit of a swollen check having been pressed up against another man's chair for over four hours on the train, greasy hair (shower bedamned) and several bags on my back, and under my eyes. It's been nearly 21 hours since I've seen a bed, and I will have to wait another 10 as I prepare for my journey by ferry from Nynashamn to Visby, and finally to the farm in Rone on the island of Götland.
Known for its medieval buildings, mainly churches, and the stony soil, much of Götland is populated by simple sheep farmers who want to seek out and maintain a simpler way of life. My experience of Götland via the wwoofing website excited me to the possibilities of being knee deep in mud shearing a 1,000 year old breed of lamb (or lamm, in swedish). But this would not be the case.
Several weeks prior to my arrival I contacted Martin and Anso about my visit and they put me in touch with Marion Huber, my co-wwoofer during the two week stint. Marion is also from Switzerland, and would just be finishing her practicum at a hospital in Turku, Finland. She seemed really sweet via email and enthusiastic about both meeting up and our farming experience together.
As I stumbled through the Stockholm Central Station balancing my 15 kilo bag, a backpack full of books (train fare) and the mounting expectations of my rugged two week stint on an island.. I found myself in the mess of Stockholm commuters bustling towards the south bound Nynashamn train. I then realized that I had totally forgotten everything the train station agent had told me, and now I was encumbered both with bags, and a complete lack of direction. I turned to a group of school children, picking the oldest one (usually its a safe bet to talk to students as they are immersed in english and more readily able to converse), and upon tapping her shoulder realized it was the teacher. She beamed at me, and soon I was on my way, tagging along with a group of students bound for Götland via the very same ferry. School children here seem to go on many overnight trips to various locales all over sweden. We saw several up in Abisko when Yvonne and I stayed at a hostel for four nights and hiked above the arctic circle. I can't imagine taking anyone of my previous art classes (kids of the same age as this stockholm group) for four nights in a hostel.. I can just imagine the squeals now.. ugh. Nonetheless Helen and Katarina (or "Kiki" as the students affectionately regarded her- headmaster and all) talked me through the process of getting on the ferry and arriving without issue. They also informed me of their jobs, the current school system in Stockholm and the effectiveness of their type of private school. Let it be said that private schools here are not the same as private schools in the states. With money funded entirely by the government, although the school is private, it does not seek tuition from its students. It also does not bend in any way to the laws and structures given by the government for public schools. It no longer comes down to money or class, but a manner of preference.
At the train station I excuse myself from the rambunctious group to use the ladies room. I had been searching the train and ferry station, but still no sign of Marion. I even stalked a girl for several minutes before I decided she was definitely not the wwoofing type. . but as I left the ladies stall I spotted a girl in a trademark large leather jacket, totting a giant silver suitcase, and looking suspiciously familiar to the several photos I received from Marion to indicate her appearance. There she was, in tight jeans, nylons, make up and an impossibly fashionable brown leather jacket. I felt like a complete ogre in her presence, and immediately began imagining her dealing with a flock of rowdy sheep.. heh.
Let's just say I was a bit skeptical about her, though I'm such she felt the same about me in some way. She seems uncommonly enthusiastic about meeting me and beginning this trip and I feel kind of awkward at first, not sure if she's entirely sincere in an attitude uncommon among soft spoken, introverted swedes. We exit the bathroom, yes, and head for the queue where we'll deposit our bags and collect a "real" ticket.
With her small frame, and gentle, doe-like demeanor I fear all my actions and movements to be oafish and crude. I try to focus through the intense fatigue brought on by a hellish 16 hour train ride with two screaming children, a man who wreaked of smoke, and sitting chairs only. It could've been worse.. I eat typical swedish fare (meatballs and potatoes) while she carefully chews a gala apple. This oughta be an interesting two weeks. ...we spend the rest of our time discussing our mutual experiences prior to our random meet up in the ladies room. Her time in the hospital in Turkey, her favorite vacationing spots, what kinds of songs her family sings together during Holidays, etc etc.. I tell her a bit about farming before I feel my eyelids drop and we both decide I should sleep, we'll talk later..
We leave the ferry, each anticipatorial of the strenuous, eye opening weeks ahead of us on this strange island. Not entirely sure what Martin looks like we immediately set eyes on a bearded man in the corner sporting a flannel shirt, holding one kid on the hip, while the other toe-head clings somewhat hesitantly to his pant leg. It was too easy. Martin's car is full of work debris and children's toys. The tell tale signs of all farmer cars I've driven in is some homemade repair to the car involving some kind of duct tape, wire or wood. Martin's appendage was a large wooden 2x 4 that was used to prop open the trunk large and long enough for Marion and I to load our large bags. We all squished into the car, and headed for Rone Smissarve.
Alma and Torrun are 2 years and 4 years old respectively. They run the show. Their white-blond hair and pale blue eyes seem to act as a shield to any punishment or reprimandation. They aggressively pursue their desires and seem impervious to their parents' wishes or warnings, though Martin's booming voice has a strong effect at times. Torrun claims she's feeling car sick, and rather than have our indoctrination be through the regurgitated lunch of his eldest tot, we decide to stop at a local church. Marion and I explore the church while Alma and Torrun each distribute rocks of different sizes and shapes into our hands, expecting the obligatory "Tak" (or, "thanks") after each deposit. I surruptitously chuck my gifted gravel in with the rest, pretending to act surprised and happy with each new bundle. It becomes apparent that Torrun is better, so we leave the gorgeous church, and head finally for home.
The farm is probably the most run down of any yet, but i do not judge. Though Martin is a bit weird at times, he seems to be enthusiastic about having help. What Marion and I hadn't anticipated was the extreme lack of work we were able to do. He takes us through some routines, proper care with the electric fence; how when and where to feed the chickens, and the benefits of having sheep of some 1,000 year old breed. Dinner is a strong meat sauce spaghetti made with beef from a local livestock herder and butcher. It's savory and delicious, and we help ourselves to many spoon fulls before heading to bed.
Martin's initial tour of the house, and our sleeping quarters, let us know that in case we needed to pee in the night, there was a bucket in the corner of the room we could piss in and then empty in the morning. I thought Marion was going to faint! Thankfully her English is not always so accurate, so she misses things that would otherwise cause her to go into a kid of fit, or sunken emotional state (this is just me projecting). So far we've done very little but clean up after the kids and Martin and Anso, organize some of the tamer livestock and sort firewood for the furnace into piles. We are also responsible for dinners twice a week, so last night I did some brainstorming. WIth cupboards stocked, but no obvious continuity I meditated on a dinner that consisted primarily of ground beef and flower. Pasties! The treats that my mom's friend colleen used to bake for us. A tradition from her folks' native land of northern(?) england. I felt empowered by the personal history and the potential delicious outcome. Truth be told they turned out fantastic! The crust was perfect (even without measuring cups, dern metric system) and the filling was really fresh, you could tell the cow had been recently slaughtered.. mmm.
We've been eating them ever since... so nice.
Marion is a bit fed up with the alternative lifestyle. Her impression of Swedish farms were quaint, and perfectly run. The reality of small scale organic farming is that it's either a life hobby, or something that most people do on the side. Martin and Anso are really intelligent, ambitious people and it looks like with two rambunctious kids, it's difficult to even keep their own lives in order, let alone the farm.
While Marion remains skeptical, I am keeping my eyes open.
Seidon is a refugee from Iraq. His mother and father, both doctors, were prohibited from practicing their craft under the rule of Sadam Hussein, but were also forbidden from leaving the country. He tells me the details of his life story after I timidly inquire over the course of our trek from Rimforsa to Haddebo. After several pleas to the embassy for visas his mother is able to take Seidon and herself to England and then to Sweden, his father joins them a year later. Unlike many of his friends, Seidon owns a car, and was more than willing to offer a ride to a stranger who he met through unlikely means at his friend Hjordis' house in Rimforsa. He gives me a wide grin when he talks of the thrill of driving, and happily tells me of the several extra hours of work he put in at the ICA Supermarket to save enough for gas, insurance and the costly expense of a driver's license (some 80,000 Kronors about 15,000 US Dollars
We wind up and down roads that I would consider unsuitable for Seidon's beautifully kept car, but he continues to press on and executes a few encouraging quotes in English to assuage any anxiety I might have..it feels foolish to worry so insistently on the care of his car, something totally out of my control and in the hands of a capable driver. Finally, with great relief I spy the Skogsfestivalen sign, we made it. I take a deep breath, and spy out of the windshield a man who I can only guess is Viktor. His black shirt, displaying the sign of the same name as the entrance, greets us with a warm smile. Already I feel more at ease than I had at Hildegard's. Seidon opens the car door for me, another sign of his incredible chivalry, and over-politeness. His slacks and pressed shirt flapping in the wind as he smiles wide again, encouraging me to liberate from my seat belt and greet my destination. I smile warmly and shake the hand of my new host, Viktor Säfve. Seidon and Viktor keep up small talk, laughing about the misunderstandings about directions while I attempt to heave the impossible load of my rucksack. Seidon looks horribly out of place, his pressed shirt, pristine and glaring against the backdrop of dark, wet forests, and slippery rocks. Viktor stands at attention, his brown pants with evidence of labor, and his sincere gaze not at all judging or hurried. I assemble myself, a mule of Patagonia green and grey, and bid Seidon adieu. I still can't believe he went out of his way to Hjortkvarn from his route to Uppsala, but despite my gracious thanks he claims the pleasure was all his.
Water is gathered every morning from a well down near where Seidon parked the car, about 200 meters from the house. The large water jugs weigh about 50 lbs each, and though I am strong, require the wheelbarrow.
Viktor leads me and Yvonne straight to the house, passing the komposting
toilet outside to the front porch currently occupied by two precocious,
The interior of the house is inviting. Cool, natural colors cover the walls and offer a contrasting backdrop to the cold, almost greasy black iron stove--the original one from the house's construction. Large, unassuming candle holders hang at eye level above the cooking area, clean from wax dripping, and eager to hold up the only obvious source of light for the kitchen. Food is kept in the pantry and in a large "sleeping couch" relegated to the dining room. This old piece of furniture belonging to Kata's father was used to acquiesce paltswimmar (food coma) after a large meal. It now houses a
After a short tour, we return outside to hear the list of projects we would start and hopefully finish in the next few weeks. The first of which was chopping wood, and clearing the large 10 meter by 5 meter pile of spruce, birch and maple from beside the goat house. I had never wielded an ax and after several worried looks from my grandmother as she watched my brother break down a fallen redwood, I thought I never would. Though here I was, eagerly encouraged to quarter and split giant logs. It was a pathetic sight, but Viktor's encouragement and faith put my anxieties at ease, I would soon learn proper technique and stance so that you didn't hurt your back. Yvonne, who had just returned with Viktor from a 10 day trip to Northern Sweden cataloguing endangered mosses, fungi and lichen with foresty
Viktor showed us an area of plantation forest (a term I would become thoroughly familiar with..) that needed attention to revive. The spruces were growing less than 2 meters apart in some areas, and were without proper sunlight. No mosses or other species of floor dwelling flora (or fauna) could survive and thus the trees suffered. We would learn the proper way to diagnose the area, gauge economic strategy for cutting, and preserve some trees for future wood to sell, and enrich the natural area.
After a delicious (sic) vegan dinner, we head to the nearby lake. Goats follow us obediently and Viktor sighs, saying that they will need to be carried if they follow us along this shorter route, so we take the long way,
The boats wait for us by the edge of the water, unprotected as if no one has ever been to this lake but us.. I get in the middle so as to encourage
The island, one of a few in the Hjarte (heart) lake is completely untouched by man. Still home to several species, including moose (who i was very eager to catch a glimipse of) it also houses several glacial stones (rocks carried here by glaciers during the ice age and dropped when the ice melted. Some have split cleanly in two or three pieces.. they are massive.. and humbling). We paddle to the shore of the island and proceed deep into the forest while Viktor instructs in English about the various pieces of a forest. I listen with all my might, still without my forest-floor-legs, and numb from sitting on my feet the whole ride over.
We climb and duck and weave, soaking up the incredibly greenery of our surroundings, awe inspired by the quietude and the promise of moose or crane sightings. Climbing back into the canoe I feel a new serenity pass over me. This is where I need to be, this is where I need to spend my time and learn to let go. I hope that the next two weeks will show me new kinds of patience and humility. A kind of peace that you can only find in places you hope will never change, that have unequivocal power over you without question. I stare out into the still water reflecting the flanking mountains and spy a golden eagle soaring high above our destination shore.
